Flight to Dragon Isle (21 page)

Lonely … so lonely …

So dark …

No stars
…

The voice drew her back to where a dozen mine shafts, framed by scaffolding and ladders, burrowed into the cliff face. Crude metal rail tracks snaked from the vast entrance down to the jetties, where teams of old and injured dragons were hauling great wagons loaded with heavy ore down to the ships. Others were dragging the empty wagons back. It took Quenelda a moment to work out what was wrong. It was the breeds. In utter disbelief, she turned I’ve Already Eaten towards the jetty for another pass.

‘They’re using old battledragons in the mines!’ Quenelda was outraged.

‘What?’ Root shouted. He had turned in his stirrups and was watching the mine as they swung upward in an arc. Figures were running out of the cavernous entrance. He could faintly hear shouting. Then the ground convulsed. Panic rippled outwards as more and more miners turned to flee, jumping from the scaffolding in their haste.

‘Look! Look!’ Root pulled on Quenelda’s arm. ‘Something’s going on.’ He unbuckled his helmet to hear better. ‘Look. I think—’

There was a huge muffled
boom
followed by an earsplitting
crack!
The hillside rippled, then part of the quarry face blew out in billowing clouds of splintered wood, boulders and ash. Vast chunks of burning rock arced into the sky.

‘
Aaarghh!
’ Quenelda screamed. Everything around her turned bright white, then yellow, leaving her stunned and blinded, with a pink after-image imprinted on the backs of her eyes. Next second, the rippling aftershocks of the explosion tossed the big battlegriff and his riders sideways. Then they were swept away like driftwood on a storm-lashed beach out to sea.

Root’s helmet was blown out of his hands. A hot wind hit him like a bunched fist, and then everything went black.

Quenelda felt her tether rope snap, then the breath was punched out of her as she hit the water. Battlegriff and girl thrashed around in the churning tide as debris rained down on them. Stinging salty sea water poured into her mouth. Fingers frantic with haste, she tore at the strap of her helmet, while trying to free her feet from the stirrups.

‘Root!’ Quenelda spluttered when she surfaced among the freezing waves and called to her friend. Her ears were ringing, and she the sour taste of sea water was in her mouth. Her flying harness was getting tangled in her mount’s claws. Quickly slicing through the leather with her flying knife, Quenelda flung herself over the saddle and groped for the gnome’s safety line. It was no good; she couldn’t get a grip … then it came away in her hands.

Yellow dust hung in the air like a choking haar. She couldn’t see anything beyond a half-dozen arm spans. Flaming chunks of ore and rock were raining down about her as she searched for her friend. Taking a mouthful of dust-choked air, Quenelda plunged down into a sea of turmoil. Noises hammered against her head, amplified by the water. Bubbles rose noisily, disorienting her. The water churned and sucked, then boomed as the merchant galleys in the harbour broke up and sank with a tearing of timbers. It was as if time itself had slowed and she was swimming through treacle.

Root … Root. Where was he?
Fronds of dark kelp wrapped about her. She pushed it away from her face. There! Root’s distinctive red jerkin stood out against the shingle like a bright red fish. Blood was clouding the water about him. Kicking with all her strength, Quenelda tried to make for the unconscious gnome. She wanted to reach down to him, but somehow, despite her flying gear, her body wanted to float to the surface. It was like swimming against a strong current. With a final effort, Quenelda tugged at Root’s harness and managed to grab his hair braids. Desperate now for air, she kicked upwards. Stones and boulders were still raining down as she surfaced, churning the water; she realized that one had gashed her forehead, spilling hot blood down her face. Salt stung her eyes.

The galleons anchored at the stone wharf were all on fire. One was already sinking, its caulked timbers ripped open by the tons of exploding brimstone in its hold. Shredded sails and blazing rigging fell to the deck, spilling bodies into the sea.

Trying to keep Root’s head clear of the waves, Quenelda struck clumsily shoreward towards I’ve Already Eaten, gagging on the water that slapped into her mouth and up her nose. There was a second explosion from another burning ship as the fire reached its cargo of brimstone.

Boom!

Sea and sound raced outwards. The concussion deafened Quenelda; waves smacked her face, more sea water went up her nose and into her mouth. Her head rang. Shrapnel fizzed and popped over her head like a swarm of hornets, peppering the beach with a lethal storm. The sea was so cold. The weight of her flying cloak and boots was dragging her numb limbs down. There was a dull second
boom
, and a huge boulder crashed down, sending a massive wave over Quenelda’s head, driving her under again. She panicked as her legs became tangled in the kelp beds. She had to let go of Root for a moment.

Kicking frantically, Quenelda released her brooch, and the weight of the cloak fell away into the clouded water. Grabbing Root again, she struck out for the shore, but she was exhausted. Then a foot touched rock! Quenelda sighed with relief. She could stand now. Roughly hauling Root by his flying harness up onto the dunes, Quenelda turned back to the panicking battlegriff, who was in danger of drowning as his feathered wings became waterlogged.

‘Softly, I’ve Already Eaten.’ She calmed him with her hand, trying to keep those lethal claws from injuring her.
Hush … hush
… Hanging onto a stirrup, she urged the creature onto the shore. Hooves struck rock, and the animal surged out of the water.
Gently – you’re safe now. Trust me
…

Sailors were coughing and retching about them as Quenelda dragged herself, Root and her mount up onto the sand. Tethering I’ve Already Eaten to a bleached tree trunk washed up on the beach, she collapsed and lay there, shaking.

Waves tugged at her boots as the tide slowly withdrew, taking the badly injured and dead with it. Ash floated down like yellow snow. Her ears were bleeding and she couldn’t hear properly. Chest heaving, Quenelda blinked, trying to clear the after-image from the back of her eyes. She retched, hot liquid spurting up to burn the back of her throat. Her limbs were trembling with exhaustion, but she had to get moving.

Root … Root … how was he? Was he badly injured?

Scant feet away, a seagoblin collapsed noisily on the sand, but not before Quenelda had spotted Root lying motionless beneath him. He was still breathing as she pulled him out from beneath the cursing goblin, but blood was coursing from a head wound. Examining it, Quenelda found a nasty bump and a long shallow gash just above his hairline. Searching through the pouches of her flying belt, she picked out a small jar. Her leaden fingers fumbled with the lid, but eventually she managed to paste some of the thick ointment over the wound. That should stop the bleeding and prevent infection.

Behind her, I’ve Already Eaten was shaking out his wings, preening with beak and claw, tearing out smoking feathers. Back on firm ground, he ignored the shouts and explosions – he was accustomed to them and wouldn’t panic now. Quenelda swiftly checked him over too, treating a deep gash on his left flank with the same ointment.

Untying a sodden saddle blanket, Quenelda dragged Root until he was sitting upright against the battlegriff’s flanks, sheltered by a hind leg and an outstretched feathered wing.

Protect him
, she commanded the battlegriff, wrapping the boy in the wet blanket and then staggering up the steep dunes. The sand clung to her boots and breeches, slowing her down. Before her she saw a scene from the Netherworld: crying children were stumbling aimlessly around the small cottages that clustered near the outer rim of the mine. Somewhere, a bell was tolling urgently.

Terrified mountain goblins, trolls and dwarfs emerged from the mushrooming cloud of choking dust that hung over the devastated mine. Only their red-rimmed eyes and the dark gashes of their mouths were visible beneath the thick layer of yellow ash. The stench of burning flesh reminded Quenelda of the hospital roosts. Were there no healers? No Mages amongst the miners’ families?

Tying her flying scarf around her mouth and nose, eyes streaming, she staggered towards the screams. She was immediately plunged into a world of madness.

An injured cave dragon was stampeding, crushing everything and everyone lying in its path. It pounded down the sand dunes and disappeared from sight. Quenelda headed to where shouts and cries filtered dully through the smog.

The mine entrance was gone. In its place was a gaping hole in the mountainside filled with chalky ash that coated hair, eyelashes and tongue. Smoke, thick and oily as sheep’s wool, brought Quenelda to her knees. Miners stumbled out, tripping, falling, crying, abandoning equipment as they fled. Grabbing what looked like a cone-shaped mask, Quenelda experimentally put it over her nose and mouth, and immediately began to breathe more easily. Wiping away the blood that still streamed from the cut over her eye, Quenelda managed to tie on the mask as fleeing miners bumped and jostled her.

The passageway she clambered through was chaotic. Timbers that had shored up the ceiling and sides were reduced to splinters. Spars lay on the ground, their ragged edges snagging at Quenelda’s boots. To one side, the metal rails running into a tunnel were buckled and bent. Water gushed down from broken flumes and aqueducts, quenching fires as it pooled. A dead dragon lay crushed beneath the debris. Checking for a pulse between the great splayed toes, Quenelda moved on, the voice whispering desperately in her head.

Climb … climb … climb
…

Where are you? Where are you?
she called desperately, searching through the smoke. The chill of the day outside was a memory; deep in the mine the air was searing hot. Lungs burning, Quenelda paused for a rest at a junction where several mine shafts met. Sweat prickled inside her sea-soaked clothing. Flames and tarry black smoke poured out of a dozen fissures in the fractured rock face. Two of the tunnels were blocked; others had partially collapsed. Water was gushing from a cracked trough, raising clouds of steam as it quenched the hot stone. From one wide tunnel Quenelda heard the lash of a whip and a bellow, and followed the sound. The ground sloped gently down into a huge central cavern with seams radiating outwards like the spokes of a wheel. A group had gathered about a blocked shaft.

Traces were slung round a huge boulder. Grunting, sweating miners, mostly trolls and dwarfs, hauled on ropes, their hands and shoulders raw. Meanwhile an overseer lashed a bellowing cave dragon – Quenelda noticed that one of its hind legs was broken. Three other dragons lay dead or dying in the rubble, their traces cut away. The boulder was barely moving.

‘Show pity!’ she shouted, her voice raw, as she saw the severity of the cave dragon’s injuries. ‘Show pity!’

In answer, a troll swung his heavy pit mallet and the bellowing ended abruptly.

A broad-shouldered dwarf in a singed leather hauberk was shouting orders. He wore a battered miner’s helmet and carried a great mallet slung over his shoulder. His hair was singed, and half his face glistened where the cheek-guard of his helmet had been torn away by the explosion.

‘Odin give me strength,’ he cursed as he took a gulp from his water bottle. ‘I can’t be in three places at once! Gimlet, get down to level ten and see what damage has been done. Get a team down there. Targe’ – he turned to a dark-haired dwarf beside him – ‘go and check the water troughs. I want to know if the aqueduct is intact there. We have a lot of fires to put out.’

‘Aye, Malachite.’

‘Well?’ the dwarf foreman snapped suspiciously to the masked stranger who appeared out of the dust. ‘Who in Odin’s name are you?’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned away. ‘Follow me. Be quick about it. That’s six shafts down and two hundred miners trapped or dead, and those good-for-nothing animals won’t move the rubble. The whole world’s wanting brimstone, and there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t get another shipment out.’

Quenelda opened her mouth, then closed it again. Maybe she could learn more if they didn’t know who she was. Picking up a fallen globe lamp, she followed Malachite down a gallery blasted to smithereens by the explosion, and on into the burning heart of the mine.

Climbing … climbing
…

At first she didn’t see it beneath the choking clouds of dust and the mounds of shale. The creature’s thoughts were rambling and confused. The explosions and sulphurous smoke had triggered old memories of battle.

Climbing
…

Quenelda peered through the roiling dark, her hearts suddenly racing. Sucked up by the main airshaft, black smoke poured out of a cracked seam, making it impossible to see clearly more than a dozen strides in any direction. Flames licked out of dozens of fissures, feeding on precious air. Even with her mask on, Quenelda was struggling to breathe. The floor was covered with semiconscious miners, thrashing around and gasping like fish out of water. Ten heartbeats passed while she stood frozen to the spot.

Lonely …

So lonely
…

Quenelda’s head jerked up. ‘Stormcracker Thunder-cloud?’ Her whispered words were barely audible beneath the crack of hammer on stone, the lash of whip and the bellowing cave dragons.

‘Stormcracker!’ The cry of love leaped across six lonely moons and an ocean of loss. ‘Stormcracker!’

The dragon managed to lift his weary head a half-dozen feet from the ground before the cruel bit cut into the soft scales around his mouth. His scales were dull and caked with dust – dozens were cracked or missing, leaving raw ulcers oozing beneath the dirt. His folded wings looked parchment-thin. Quenelda could see the blue blood in the dragon’s veins moving sluggishly. And he stank dreadfully: of fear, and loss, and a longing for Open Sky.